To The Victor His Spoils
by Blackrose Neko
Summary: ...Honestly, I couldn't think of a good summary for this, but I hope you enjoy anyway. Pirate!England-centric, rated M for the possibility of FrUK later on.


SO. This was a oneshot that somehow became a twoshot, out of desperation to finally have a fic up. It was written mostly due to boredom, partially to entertain my Pirate!Iggy-loving friends as well as myself, and partially because I was high off Mountain Dew after watching Muppet Treasure Island. XDDD I reeeeeally wanna get Chapter 2 up as soon as I can, the only problem being that it has yet to be written. But when it IS written, there WILL be FrUK...explicit or not, I have yet to decide. Anywho, reviews are always appreciated, and the more critiques I receive, the better a writer I can become. So BRING IT.

Disclaimer: Hetalia is the property of Hidekaz Himaruya/Studio DEEN/FUNimation/Tokyopop/whoever the hell bought it out before I could.

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The tavern was a sorry sight to behold-it was dark and dank, tables and chairs were falling apart, and the whole place held a grotesque mixed odor of of sweat, rotting meat, and week-old sick that had yet to be cleaned up. Quite a few of the night's patrons had passed out where they'd sat, spilling their poor excuses for drink in the process (and with the abundance of flies, it was hard to tell if some of them were even still _alive_); others laughed raucously with one another at jokes no one would have found funny otherwise; still others had managed to come across "pleasurable company": those lewdly-dressed, overly made-up, fake-breasted types looking to make a quick shilling or two.

At the center of all this mayhem, at a large table which held the majority of these drunken sods, sat a very out-of-place-looking young man. He seemed to carry his own aura of brightness in such a dingy, dismal place: His youthful face was cleanly scrubbed and showed not a single sign of fatigue; his hair, too, shone in the small ray of moonlight leaking through a crooked board in the ceiling; his eyes, unlike most of his fellows, were not glazed over by alcohol but instead sparkled...despite the three empty pints resting beside him.

The tavern hostess, a big-boned woman with wiry braided locks, approached the table with a rather smug grin as she patted her thigh, which jingled lovingly with the sound of gold dancing in her apron pocket. "Anythin' else I can 'elp you with, _sir_?...'Nother round, may'aps?"

"Hmm..." He stared into his empty mug, trying to seem disinterested, then up at the rest of the table; a couple of the other men were already gazing back hungrily. He beamed. "Alright then. Another round for all my mates, courtesy of your humble shipmate."

The crowd cheered. "That's right generous of ye, Cap'n!" shouted one.

"Cap'n?" the hostess repeated, her voice rising an octave in surprise. "Ye're a bi' of wee lad to be commandeerin' a ship, ain't ye? And' to be flashin' yer gold about, all kingly-like 'n such...ye ain't _pirates_ er nu'in, are ye? she concluded jokingly, flashing a smile that revealed several gaping holes and a few teeth that looked ready to fall out any moment.

"Why, my lady!" the young man replied, mockingly defensive as he rose from his chair. "I am utterly appalled!" Even the meer thought..." Using the chair as a foothold he leapt onto the table, where he stood with his hands placed defiantly on his hips. "We are but hardworking seafolk! We do not plunder or pillage, we are simply trying to earn our keep upon the high seas! We've wives and children, mums and dads alike waiting for us back home. Besides, those pirates-such uncouth, ruthless behavior would never be tolerated on a ship such as mine!" He turned on his heel to face the men and opened his arms dramatically. "We are sophisticated gentlemen, are we not?"

The crowd roared with laughter and cheers of agreement.

"Right you are, sir!"

He turned back again, but this time he removed his wide feathered cap and bowed deeply to the hostess. "And I believe I have yet to introduce myself, haven't I? Arthur Kirkland, at your service. "_Esquire_," he added, emerald eyes glittering mischieviously. More guffaws echoed from the crew.

"Oi, Cap'n!" cried a voice to his immediate right, "Now 'at you've gone an' made us start missin' all out family back 'ome, 'ow 'bout a song to cheer us up? Eh, '_o 'umble squire'_?"

"Aye, lessee some of that '_noble upbringing' _yer so proud about!"

"...Very well then, very well," Arthur drawled, rolling his eyes. "But just one." A particular melody popped into his head right away, one that his older brother had taught him long ago; he began to sing in Gaelic in a lilting voice that was childish or even girlish compared to his appearance; and though there wasn't a man in the room who understood what he was saying, the mirth was contagious, and everyone was clapping their hands or banging their fists on the wood in time to the beat and smiling and laughing heartily; and Arthur even did a little jig (it was surprising, with the evident amount of dryrot, that the table did not collapse beneath him, but the captain was surprisingly light on his feet) and spun about jauntily with his face bright and smiling and his cheeks going rosy with the energy and excitement and maybe even a little from the drink at last; and the hostess was cheering and clapping and grinning with them, eyes locked on the dancing man's feet which moved so amazingly fast that she had not a second to look up at his hand slowly drawing something from his jacket-

She was dead before she hit the ground.

Some of the women screamed the moment the gun went off, and ran out of the tavern with tears in their eyes. Then everything went silent. The charade was over.

Arthur jumped down from the table, still smiling, but his eyes holding something sadistic, malicious-the satisfaction of an evil deed done well. With one perfectly polished boot he nudged the corpse on its side, knelt down, and fished through her pocket for his bag of gold pieces. "I'm afraid this is what you get for trying to cheat a pirate...like we would ever pay this much for this tripe you call spirits." Before returning to his chair, he gave the dead woman one last (mocking) bow. "Pleasure doing business with you, milady."

This time the chuckles were less merry.

"Bit of a pity, really...charming old hag," he said to no one in particular, taking one last sip of the disgusting swill. "Finish your pints and raid while you can, boys. I want us shipped out within the hour."

The crew groaned, more like children being dragged from a sweet shop than a band of ruthless cutthroats. "Why so soon?"

"Why so soon? Well-" he chuckled, "I for one have had my fun as a 'sophisticated gentleman' for one night. Besides, whatever useless authorities they have in this sad little harbor will find this scene come morn if not sooner. And I'd rather not be here when they do."

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A/N: Attempt at writing a Cockney accent = FAIL

Also, a word about the title: This fic, evidently, has nothing to do with Andrew Jackson's use of the spoils system during his presidency. But I felt the phrase went nicely with the situation...and will work even better in future chapters, if all goes according to plan in my wicked little mind.


End file.
